The owner of this particular specimen was wagging it around like a helicopter blade whilst screaming profanity. There was an empty bottle of something at his feet, and by the looks of things, he was not leaving the station anytime soon.

I’m a little curious as to why he was so fascinated by his own member, as one would imagine he’s been attached to it since birth. I suppose their connection is his greatest life accomplishment to date, and this is why he felt the need to share it with the world.

Regardless, there it was, wagging around like a sad limp sock attached to a sad limp guy.

As I walked by, it dawned on me that I rarely see the naked bits of ladies down in the underbelly of the city. Once I saw a large woman’s breast when she heaved it out to show me (an action I still cannot explain though this too was related to alcohol), but that’s the only time I’ve ever been flashed by a lady.

Comparatively, quite a few male flashers have crossed my path in various locations around the globe. I’ve seen seen male flashers in the US, the UK, Grenada, Tanzania, Switzerland, and of course-France.

There must be something exciting that flashers get from their dirty deeds. I wonder what it is, and I wonder if it could be replicated by flashing random bits of body normally not associated with sex?

An elbow, for example. If I just started intently staring at people on the metro, holding eye contact whilst my arm slowly curled up to reveal a little piece of bow-candy? I wonder if I’d get a thrill out of it. Maybe a knee pit now and then?

Though I guess people wouldn’t realize it was something they weren’t supposed to see, so I’d probably have to tattoo the words “Do Not Look At Me, I Am An Erotic Elbow” onto it.

Yea, that might work. Or I guess I could tattoo some naughty bits onto my elbow and flash them.

Penises are too mainstream though.

I’m thinking ovaries. Yes, I think if I tattooed ovaries onto my elbow, stared people down on the metro, and flashed them a little ovarian bow, I could probably replicate the feeling accomplished by your run-of-the-mill flasher.

You know, really bring it more into the contemporary art scene.

The tattoo would probably hurt a bit though. Plus there’s the cost. And for what? At the end of the day, I’d just be that girl on line 4, flashing tattooed elbow ovaries at people.

Maybe they’d sell little statues of my elbow in the tourists shops next to the Eiffel Tower pencil sharpeners and baguette pens. Maybe I’d get silkscreened on a few tshirts before Urban Outfitters caught wind, mass-marketed the shirts and sold them to hipsters for 30 seconds until the fad ended-thus erasing my mystic underground image.

Still, there’s always henna…..

A splash of ethnic flare, a hint of cross cultural flashing relations. Western white American meets Indian art in unconventional location, in one of the most artistic cities in the world-and it’s temporary. Flashing continues only as long as the henna-ed ovaries remain on my dedicated-to-the-cause bow.

I was 22, I decided I hated men, and I went out with my roommate to celebrate the recent discovery.

Sitting at the Irish pub down the street from our apartment, I ordered a round of shots for her and I, and the two of us began discussing why boys were stupid. I can’t remember the details, but I’m sure it was an inspiring conversation.

Normally this would have done me in instantly. But considering the festivities, I instead ordered another round of tequila and my roommate and I watched him from afar (ten feet down the bar).

Five minutes later my blood was happily flowing to the tune of a mariachi band.

So when Sexy McNogood beckoned me with his finger, I strolled down the bar to say hi. At least that’s what I meant to say. But what came out was:

“Hey, I’m out celebrating my hatred of all men.”

To which he responded:

“Interesting, I’m just out looking for a one night stand.”

Tilting my head at him curiously, I muttered: “ok then, I think we’re done here” before returning to the roommate.

Twenty minutes later, he asked for my phone number.

Two days later, he called.

We went on three dates. On the eve of the third we were doing some hard-core smooching and yea ok-a little over-the clothing heavy petting was beginning.

I still had my jacket on though, to give you an indication of how far things had NOT progressed.

But for reasons still unclear to me now, he took this as an opportunity to utter the phrase:

“I’ve got something I want to show you.”

Standing up, he walked to his closet, opened the door, and asked me to come inside.

Peering into the former master bedroom closet, I saw various toys, whips, leather attire, masks, and some sort of swinging contraption in the corner.

For the record men, this is not the appropriate way to introduce this particular form of extracurricular activites to a potential mate.

As my Romeo soon discovered.

Speechless, I stared at him for some seconds before casually attempting to exit his house. Muttering something about leaving the iron on in my apartment, I hopped down the stairs, yelled out something about not bothering to call me again, and left the house o’leather.

A month later I was back in the same bar with my roommate. This time we were celebrating her hatred of men.

It was open mic night.

Out of nowhere tattooed leather man slimed onstage.

Staring directly at me, he began strumming his guitar while singing:

“You were out to hate all men, and I was just looking for a one night stand”

The song lasted about three minutes.

Thankfully it ended in time for my roommate and I to have one last round of tequila.

A balding man in a suit once asked my mother and I if we would have a threesome with him behind a tomb in Pere Lachaise. That’s right-the resting grounds of Colette, Chopin, Oscar Wilde, and Jim Morrison are evidently also a prime location to proposition women for sex.

Since that day I have often wondered how successful this man had been prior to our encounter with him. I assume he had been watching us for some time as we wandered through the cemetery, setting up a tripod for my mother’s camera (she was in a photography class at the time), and taking pictures of various headstones. We climbed and positioned ourselves against the aging stone, just to get the right angle to frame our shots-happily chatting about lighting and symmetry; totally unaware of the perverted stalker.

He was obviously considering different angles for various activities in which he hoped we would happily participate. After observing us from afar, he slid out from behind a particularly tall tomb and stood in front of the camera lens. It was here that his suggestion for the absurd was performed, one hand on hip-the other pointing to his member. I must say he casually conducted himself as if the whole situation where quite normal.

Needless to say, we did not. Our faces simultaneously formed the same disgusted expression as we packed up our things.

I cannot for the life of me imagine a world where a mother and daughter would agree to participate in a threesome together-much less with a stranger-much less with a stranger in a cemetery.

Just goes to show-this City of Love is capable of just about anything.